


tethered end

by minigum



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Office, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Reader-Insert, Verbal Degradation, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minigum/pseuds/minigum
Summary: You are pushed to your limit. So you push him to his.
Relationships: Xu Ming Hao | The8/Reader
Kudos: 48





	tethered end

‘Still burning the midnight oil?’

You temporarily break from the countless data reports to make contact with Jeonghan’s gaze, his form standing in the doorway to your office. The sharp eyes you meet are narrowed into something resembling amusement – it’s unfair how he manages to look just as well put together as he did this morning, even though it is now well after hours.

‘Unfortunately.’ A sigh, then you offer an exhausted smile. ‘Are you heading home?’ His leather messenger bag tells you as much, but you ask out of politeness anyway.

Jeonghan nods. He most likely should, he explains, before he gets any sleepier and is unable to drive. Chivalry would have him offering to give you a lift home, but Jeonghan’s known you for long enough to know that it was ultimately useless to pull you from your work before you were ready, so said offer is one that remains unmentioned. Instead, he says, ‘Don’t stay too late, okay?’

‘I’ll try,’ is the best you can give him – you’re both all too aware of your workaholic tendencies to make any kind of promise.

‘Is your boy toy coming to pick you up, at least?’

‘Must you call him that?’ At his nod – and a look that simply screams _duh_ , you continue after a slight eyeroll. ‘And no. It’s his day off, so I’ll deal with getting home on my own. I’ll be fine, Hannie. You don’t need to worry.’

‘It’s too late for that.’ His voice is soft, fondness mixed with an edge you’ve never been able to decipher, one that you’ve only ever managed to determine as private and solely his, even despite all your years of knowing him. Soon after that, he departs, bidding you a warm goodnight and sweet dreams, should you ever get to it.

Soon after he leaves, you resume your typing, all too ready to spend the early hours of the morning finishing everything. You allow yourself a moment to glance at the plush chair on the other side of the desk – the idea that it’s usually not empty is one that fills you with a small ache. Nothing too distracting, mind you, but you do acknowledge that without your usual late-night company, there was something missing – mainly in _who_ you were missing.

Regardless, any semblance of longing felt is made well worth it when you knew Minghao would doubtless be resting, utilizing as much time as he could – and you were insistent upon this – recuperating for you to minimize the chances of you accidentally overworking him. Wearing him out was only acceptable in your personal lives, less so when it came to his role as your secretary.

Even so, it’s sweet in how he makes sure to let you know he misses you as well – in the past, you hardly ever checked your personal phone at work, but Minghao had changed that. And just as well, considering you would have missed the cute, mildly attention-seeking snapchats he had sent you tonight.

He _has_ been quiet since his last message however, leading you to believe that he had perhaps fallen asleep. You’ve woken up with your limbs entangled with his own enough times to know that there were occasions that, despite all the prowess he showcased as your assistant, shrewd wit and sheer force of will in the workplace that was present enough to be very, very compelling, he could also be a baby at times as well.

Amid your last document, your phone rings. At this time of night, it could really only one person. ‘Shouldn’t you be asleep?’

‘I couldn’t get there,’ the person on the end immediately answers. ‘I was thinking about you.’ Minghao’s words are husky, from disuse, you assume. ‘Aren’t you coming home soon?’ His question almost resembles a whine, particularly with the lilting tone he uses, but you take it as drowsiness making him act out in the most endearing of manners. You didn’t mind either way.

‘Yes,’ you say, then tack on a, ‘hopefully.’

‘Hopefully?’ His breathing’s a little strange, voice itself breathier, airier than usual. You’d almost say he sounded a little distracted, occupied by something else you couldn’t see, but you could so easily chalk it up to fatigue.

‘Yes. But you don’t need to wait up for me if you’re tired. Let me know if you need to go get some rest.’

‘I’m not tired though, I promise~ I just… really, really, _really_ needed to hear your voice.’ Minghao cuts himself off with a tiny gasp, the interruption enough to catch the beginnings of your concern. When you ask him if he’s alright, he giggles, the usual fluttering notes blending into another labored inhale. ‘I’m more than fine, don’t worry.’

‘I’m worrying a little,’ you confess.

Minghao takes a few seconds to respond. ‘I’m doing great, trust me.’ After a brief pause, he adds, ‘tell me about your day? I want to hear everything.’ Truly, he makes sure to emphasize, spare him no detail, he wants it all.

‘Okay,’ you swallow, glancing at your nearly completed work. You had missed him, so surely it wouldn’t hurt to indulge Minghao for a small amount of time. Maybe it would help him fall asleep and hence work out in the entirely practical sense.

You make use of the shortest of whiles before responding proper, retelling the day’s events as best as you can – a shareholder that had been a little difficult, another mysterious angel post it note left on your desk, and finally, how not having him here disrupted your work flow (not to an overwhelming extent – I mean, you still got things done, it was more about how much you really had grown accustomed to having him around).

The gap in between your storytelling is one Minghao fills with his usual ‘ _mmhm_ ’s to show his attentiveness, but they’re a little pinched, to the point where you’d say they’re sort of strained and definitely higher than his usual pitch. This is more than enough, you think, to have the aforementioned beginning of concern to become more than that.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Your tone changes at your next sentence, stern and dipping into the austerity that you were more than familiar with, considering your occupation. ‘Did you somehow manage to get sick on your day off?’

It’s when he falters, it’s when his reply stutters in an all too tell-tale manner that realization dawns, everything clicks, and you are suddenly furious in the same vein that your stomach clenches in a response far too familiar. ‘Oh my god,’ is all you manage, and it’s full of a specific type of anger.

‘Xu Minghao,’ you hiss, ‘have you been fucking touching yourself this entire time?’

A lurid moan meets your ears, shaky and visceral before it ends with breathless laughter. He doesn’t even have the decency to act ashamed about being called out, because, as it is, he has always been utterly shameless. ‘Sorry,’ he says, in a voice that tells you he is anything but. Not with how he has been wanting to be caught the entire time. ‘I couldn’t help it.’

‘You’re meant to be resting,’ you scold him, an attempt made fruitless with how stressed you sound. Fruitless with how a part of you is well-aware of how much admonishment gets him off, something you hear in a sharp inhale.

‘I got bored,’ Minghao informs you. ‘Since you’re not here, I had to make do.’

After being found out, he’s not even bothering to keep quiet anymore, words interspersed with small chokes and ‘ _ghh_ ’s that have you envisioning the path his hand takes while he’s jerking himself off – you can hear the slick sounds too, distant dull smacks that key you up in both want and ire in equal measure. Your body shakes with the mixture, and you force yourself to cross one leg over the other in some tiny degree of relief. 

The next breath you take in _rattles_ , reflecting the glare turning your gaze molten. ‘Are you actually saying what I think you’re saying?’ You ask. One of the few things you had requested of him to do at home was a load of laundry after all, containing nothing but… your underwear.

He makes a surprised noise at the question, strangled in a way that you wonder what he’s doing to himself while picturing you, but as soon as he’s able, he confesses immediately. It’s the pair he got you in France, the boutique you’d bought it from sullied from when you’d dragged him into the fitting room. Somehow, knowing exactly which ones they were made it worse, because you can picture it with startling, ruinous clarity – Minghao curled up in your bed sheets, making full use of the fact that he always slept bare, one hand busied with him…

…and the other clenched tight around midnight blue, the texture of lace pressed to his nose as he drunk in remnants of your scent, greed and avarice incarnate. It’s never enough – just like how he could never quite make himself come like you could. It’s never enough, so he just had to pull you into it.

‘You’re fucking disgusting.’ It’s precisely what he wants to hear – there’s more of that awful, awful, breathless laughter, dark with a reckless abandon born of debilitating lust, of being indulged to the point of absolute devastation. Even when he stops laughing, it doesn’t get any better, because the sound dissolves into a moan, of your name no less, loudest and at its most desperate. All to affect you to a dangerous peak. It works.

Minghao’s panting for a few minutes when you speak next, silence – in words, at least – long enough to speak plenty about how hard he had just gotten off.

‘Just you wait,’ you murmur, a soft warning filled with wicked promise. You had told him a while ago exactly what would happen if he were to ever pull a stunt like this – mainly so he knew what kind of things your retaliation would entail, mainly so he could pull his safe word out if he so needed to. This is his last chance to back out, to call this entire thing off, but he doesn’t take it. Not with what he says next.

If you closed your eyes, you could almost see him swipe his tongue across his upper lip. ‘With bated breath, princess.’

* * *

When you get home, your entire apartment is quiet, with enough of the lights off for an objective guess of Minghao to be actually asleep this time to be a good one. Subjectively however, you knew he was still anticipating your next move, something in him jolting as soon as you got home. He’s obedient enough to continue waiting regardless, and the gesture is enough to perhaps gain the smallest shred of mercy that ultimately means nothing in the long run.

You take a shower first, using the utmost care to drag it out for as long as possible. Your work attire is neatly folded and thrown into the now empty laundry basket, and you try not to think about the ruined state of your underwear that clings to you the slightest when you shed them.

The body wash you lather yourself up with is of his favourite scent, but it’s only the barest of clemency you offer that again, will amount to little when you finally got your hands on him. You took as long as you could, the loofah moving across your body at a tantalizing pace, trailing over the form in an agonizing manner that ultimately frustrated you more, which was ideal for this kind of night.

Above all, you refused to touch yourself, because you would never give him that kind of satisfaction. He’s free to think that the amount of time you’re taking in the shower is because you’re masturbating, but you will not give him the actual privilege.

At last, when you’re finally done, you head to the bedroom. The lamp is the only source of illumination, and it’s on its dimmest setting, flooding the bedroom in an intimate atmosphere. Minghao’s cuddled in the covers, looking nearly adorable enough to have you forgive him, but neither of you wanted that.

‘Hey,’ he greets, an undercurrent of eagerness that he masks through soft volume. You crawl under the covers with him, his warm skin – all of it, he’s still not wearing anything – immediately heating you up. He’s an effective hot water bottle, and any other night, you’d curl right next to him and fall asleep. But you’re not tired.

The response you give him is not in words, but he sighs happily when you begin running your hands through his hair, locks as dark as ink. Each strand flows through your fingers like silk, but both of you know that this gentle quality isn’t going to last. A tug on his hair signals as much and you hear him sharply inhale before returning to the previous tenderness.

When his body is starting to relax once more, you pull his hair once again – only, it’s a little harder this time. He makes a choked, pleased noise that’s muted, eyelids flying open to search your gaze, but you refuse to look at him and do the same thing as you had done beforehand, stroking through his locks.

Despite how soaked you are, you keep the game going, gradually pulling harder and harder until he outright moans, arching his neck to full vulnerability in markable skin – at which point, you turn around with your back to him and pretend to go to sleep.

Minghao whines at the sudden loss of contact. You feel him sidle up to you until he’s pressed to your back, as he asks you to forgive him, cajoles you with how he hadn’t meant it, apologizes as genuine in tone as he can even though you know he doesn’t fucking mean it. He chances a risky, risky move and lets one hand slide over your hip to push your satin nightdress up in order for his fingers to toy with the waistband of your underwear.

‘I’m sorry,’ he breathes, the same moment his fingers dip underneath.

You smack his hand away. Whirling around, you push your body upright on your hands and feet and level him with a glower that lets him know without a doubt that he is beneath you. ‘Prove to me how sorry you are,’ you order, tone brokering no argument, ‘and maybe I’ll let you touch me.’

His Adam’s apple bobs in a gulp, but his eyes tell you that despite the shred of fear within the depths, this is what he’s been waiting for.

As soon as you kick off the – admittedly – superfluous underwear you had worn after your shower, Minghao surges forward between your parted legs to take you into his mouth. The instantaneous nature is gratifying, the hand you had fisted into his hair not needed whatsoever to pull him to you. He groans as soon as he tastes you, and you spend a second to compose yourself as he begins to make full use of his tongue.

‘I swear to god,’ you state, repulsion clear, ‘what’s the point in giving you days off if you’re going to spend them whoring yourself to me like you do at my office?’

When his next breath is stuttered, you know your words have reached him. You push further. ‘How desperate are you exactly, to resort to getting off with used panties pressed to your face?’ Then, without giving him the opportunity to reply, and yet, leaving more than enough of a gap for that addicting sense of humiliation to settle in, you add, ‘And how much of a filthy whore do you have to be to bring yourself to that level so willingly?’

He can’t fucking respond. You know by his sudden change in demeanor where his state of mind is currently at, broken to a point where he sought (or rather, could only think of) one thing – your pleasure and yours alone. Nothing existed outside of that goal. Nothing existed outside of you and what you could and were doing to him.

‘You’re really only good for being a fucktoy, aren’t you?’ Like, was he not happy doing anything else? Was he really just living to please you?

‘Answer me,’ you instruct, pushing his face away from you by his forehead. Minghao’s – no, your fucktoy’s eyes are vacant, devoid of all sense, the lower half of his face covered in _you_ while sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. It’s all he can do but nod, comprehension beyond seeking your approval gone completely. As soon as he does, you yank him back to your clit, and he continues eating you out straight away with just as much voracity. How fucking greedy.

‘Stooping down to that level,’ you muse, squeezing your eyes shut to savor every drag through your slick folds, ‘you really are disgusting, aren’t you? What would—’ your mouth parts in a silent ‘o’, back arching as he continues the insistent motion of his mouth, and after a moment used to collect yourself, you continue. ‘What would people think if they saw you right now? If they knew you were nothing but a disgusting pervert who got off on used panties?’

‘I should feel sorry for you.’ You try to look down at him once more, to pull him against you as you rut against his face. ‘I should, but you— _shit_ , really don’t care, do you? You don’t care what anyone thinks but me. I could leave you untouched for the entire night and you’d offer your face to me the following morning.’

‘I could, you know. You’re lucky I’m good to you. You should be grateful I’ve even let you between my legs.’ Another keen of yours is cut off near instantly, one you don’t allow him the privilege of hearing in its entirety. ‘You should be grateful I let you touch me at all.’

The head between your legs nods, accompanied by a groan you feel against your core, and you snap at him once again. ‘God, you’re so _fucking_ noisy! Don’t tell me you’re actually getting off to this! Are you already this close without any stimulation? If that groan was a request for permission to come that was fucking pathetic. You can beg better than that. God knows that’s the only other use your mouth has.’

You’re so, so close. It’s a feat that you haven’t gotten yourself off already, but you’ve long trained yourself to hold back. Still, even with this in mind, the coil in your stomach had felt a couple grinds away from breaking point, perilously near and entirely something he hadn’t quite earnt yet.

Fisting his hair, you shove him away from you, and Minghao actually cries out, having also felt how close you had been. You’ve made a mess of him, mouth and chin slick with wetness as you casually yet cruelly debate if you should even let him get you off. Clearly, he’s not thinking, because apparently some part of him believed that he had the privilege of reaching for you, as if you had allowed him to pull you closer, as if you allowed him to dictate anything.

‘Don’t fucking touch me,’ you hiss, and whatever part of his mind left remembers his place.

‘Please let me make you feel good,’ his words are so close to a sob and barely coherent, but he continues, desperation lain within each word. ‘I’ll do anything, just please, I don’t care if I don’t come, I never expected you to let me, I’ll make you feel good I promise, please let me, just— please, I’m begging you, just let me—’

A derisive laugh. ‘You got something right for once, at least. But,’ and your next statement is a gentle croon, ‘you still haven’t explained to me why you think you deserve to make me feel good.’ Unless it was a demand, but playthings didn’t _get_ to make demands, and he’d do well to take care that it didn’t come off as one.

‘I don’t,’ is the immediate response. He doesn’t deserve to touch you at all, voice breaking in deference, in a show of complete surrender of all pride and coherency. This headspace of his always lead so easily to him running at the mouth, and this time is no exception, because he rambles about how dirty, how _filthy_ he is, to the point where he sullied you through touch and tongue alone.

He’s more than aware, but also, he needs you, and if you gave him the kindness, no, the honor of eating you out, he would be so grateful, so appreciative, so _indebted_ —

It’s a good answer. You cup the back of his head with a hand, pushing it forwards to have his spiel cutting off with a gasp. Even so, his tongue is already out of his mouth and against you the moment his face collides with you, a moan of absolute gratitude reverberating against the very core of your being.

‘Such a well-behaved toy.’ It’s the first verbal bone you’ve thrown him all night, and his reaction is instant, his laving affections becoming sloppier, the wet sounds sounding more and more obscene. Your own body quickly approaches the edge you so abruptly left before, and to be honest, it is a little difficult keeping your voice level, but thankfully, you’ve had extensive practice.

‘You’re lucky I’m so generous,’ comes out with as minimal trembling as you can manage, and you smile at his almost frantic nodding against you. _Yes_ , it says. He _is_ so lucky that you’ve taken pity on a whore like him, allowed him the taste and feel of you against his tongue, and he would do anything, everything he could to express to you how much it meant to him. ‘You’re so lucky that I…’

The words on the tip of your tongue disappear temporarily as his own slides over your clit, again and again, again and _again_. ‘You’re _so_ lucky that I would even remotely want to have anything to do with you,’ you try again, and the lengthier sentence when you’re this close is a mild mistake. At least in the sense that it’s more obvious when your speech catches on your own pleasure.

Still, it couldn’t be helped. Not when the curvature of your spine arcs upwards, not when your footing instinctively bucks your ass from the surface of the bed and presses you harder into his mouth. He follows your movement with wholehearted obedience, leaving not even a single second where he wasn’t attached to you. You are so fucking close.

Pushed and pulled to peaking, you get in one last line before coming, the threat of your oncoming orgasm making you somewhat sentimental.

‘You’re _so_ lucky that I would love someone like you.’

When you come to, you’re panting, brain fuzzy with endorphins that, while you do acknowledge, you don’t let it soften you, at least not yet. Said panting is interrupted in what’s a near moan from you before you clamp down on it, in full because you’re still being eaten out. He hasn’t stopped, not during your orgasm, and certainly not now.

Your body is far too reactive this close after coming, so while you give him a few more seconds to be selfish without retaliation, you put your foot down soon after. ‘Enough,’ you tell him, but it’s clear he hasn’t heard you, because he’s still going at it with full enthusiasm. You resort to using physical force instead.

‘ _Enough!_ ’ Shoving him away, he shrinks back, making a small noise that resembles a whine when he has to part.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says immediately. There’s something that looks like an apology, but for the most part, it’s overshadowed by the glassy, lust-fucked emptiness in his eyes. Regardless, he had enough sense to be repentant, sparing him from a consequence from unintentionally disobeying you. He knew you were being generous, though. If he had intentionally disobeyed you, you would have been much less merciful.

‘You are forgiven,’ even so, you narrow your eyes into a warning that has Minghao tensing. ‘But don’t push your luck.’

‘Of course not, princess.’

The briefest of pauses. Then, ‘Get on your fucking back, whore.’

Not even a single heartbeat passes before he outright scrambles to do as he is told. From where he had been lying on his stomach, he rolls over until he’s supine, dull doe-like eyes looking up at you for his next instructions. Truly, you loved him when he was like this. So, so, eager and so wholly yours in the way he wanted to be nothing but.

After a moment, you shift until your body faces his, gaze glancing downwards to catch sight of a rather physical sense of urgency. When you look at his face once more, it’s with your lips quirked into a mocking sneer – the cruelty and viciousness you embodied stealing all the air from his lungs in one fell swoop.

Cloying yet callous, sweet yet snide, you speak. ‘Did you get this hard from being used like a common fucktoy?’The question’s an entirely pointless one, considering proof lay well within reach. Your hand lifts in a measured gesture, and you deign to brush the back of it against his dick in a touch that’s more the ghost of one than anything else.

He bucks his hips, a reflex more than anything, breath stuttering audibly tearing out of his throat. When you jerk your hand away, he whimpers, and you relish the sense of anguish you can hear within the noise. It’s reminiscent of the kind he had inflicted upon you earlier with his little _stunt_ , and why you don’t feel bad for him whatsoever.

‘Ah-ah-ah,’ your tone is amused, finding dark humor in his desperation. ‘I don’t think so.’ The only person who could determine the pace, you inform him, was you. The only person that could decide when and _if_ you touched him, was you. No one else. Especially not someone was as beneath you as he was. ‘It’s on my terms, or nothing. Understand, slut?’

You do so enjoy the way he nods. ‘Let me ask you again. Did you _really_ ,’ your fingers find him once more, and his gasp blends into a moan the same time he tries his hardest to keep his hips _still_ ,‘get this hard from being used like a common fucktoy?’ The entirety of his form pulls taut as he puts everything in not thrusting into your grip, eyes squeezing shut with all the effort. ‘I _asked_ you a question. You’d do well to answer it unless you’re gagged.’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ the strain is palpable, and one that’s entirely too gratifying, especially when you steal a stroke or two. ‘I got this… _ghh_ —’ Or three. ‘—hard from being used by you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m yours. I’m your—’ he chokes when you squeeze just enough. He’s hot in your grip, in the same way he’s ruined in it, too. When you press him to continue his sentence, he does. ‘I’m _your_ slut, princess.’

A pleased hum. ‘You are.’

‘I _am_.’

When you begin talking next, your voice dips, lowering the volume to somewhere dangerous, the huskiness you so often found when you were doing a particular type of musing out loud. It meant you wanted him quiet for the moment – or, at least in words, because god knows he was always a few touches away from moaning like a whore. ‘I should just keep you to myself, you know. I could.’

‘If all you’re good at is being used, and if all you want to do is to be used by me, I could keep you here all to _myself_.’ You punctuate the statement with a certain jerk of your wrist, and he cries out. You chuckle in response. ‘You’re really getting off on this, huh? You’re this affected by being degraded, by having your body used as a plaything?’

You watch his face at moments like these, see if the sheer bliss on his face ever breaks for something for you to soothe. It doesn’t this time, because he trusts you completely, because his mouth is still parted, the lines of his eyes _still_ shut in pleasure, in wanting to feel everything that you bestowed him with. You almost regret taking your hand away.

He’s mournful at the loss, and you’re lenient enough to allow him to buck into the air into nothingness, body desperately seeking you. Regret would surely exist if you hadn’t had a reason to prevent him from coming. ‘Top drawer.’ When his eyes flutter open, confusion entering his vacant eyes, you add, ‘Do you want me to fuck you or not?’

At that, he immediately sits up, pushing himself to rest his weight on his hands. He knows what privilege you’re bestowing upon him – you could have left him unsatisfied in name only, because even if you did deny him he would have been grateful alone to have satisfied you, but you weren’t going to. You could have left him unattended and on edge for as long as you liked, hours, days even and he would have tried his best to obey you, but you weren’t going to.

Some time later, he’s lying back down once more, this time with the addition of a condom. You had to help him, because his hands were shaking the entire time, but you’d done so with only a mild comment of, ‘you’re so useless without me.’

With his wrists firmly in your grip, you pin them above his head, knees on each side of his body in a hovering straddle. You would be lying if you said that this wasn’t one of your favourite positions to be in, above him when he was so beneath you in literal and figurative manner. ‘Let me make this clear. I am going to fuck you into the mattress, and you are not to come before I give you permission. Understand?’

Eager nods greet you in an answer.

Giving said wrists a final squeeze as an unsaid order to keep them in place, you release your hold on them soon after to hitch up your nightdress. You don’t bother to take the last article of clothing off, considering you had worn it tonight for a purpose – for starters, the material’s dyed a color that reminds you of the so-called witching hour, very close to the panties he had made debase and debaucheric use of earlier.

Your sense of absolute authority was more than sufficient in how compelling it was in its sheer presence, enough that appearances, at least aesthetically, were not necessary. They weren’t, but the fact that his entirely vulnerable (in skin, in mind) state contrasted so wholly with yours gave you a power trip like no other. Plus, your beloved whore had a thing for textures, and it was satin. You did like to showcase some niceties amongst the control.

The pace you begin with is a leisurely one. It is, because you were always so fond of the slow burn, the inherent unhurried nature a perfect foundation to build mutual ruin upon. You don’t even take him inside you at first, setting on grinding against his dick, something he is already too oversensitive for.

Little twitches centered on his hips indicate his desire to support you in your motions, but he stays dutifully still – or rather, as best as he can, and his struggle was beyond gratifying – even if he could hardly stay _quiet_. He never could, and your fixation with how vocal his appreciation is ensured that you never discouraged it. That didn’t necessarily mean you didn’t point it out, however.

‘ _So_ mouthy,’ you taunt. It’s difficult not to sound affected when you’re dragging your clit against him, but you manage somewhat. His reply to the remark is another shaky moan, and you continue. ‘You really do love whoring yourself out to me, don’t you? How—’ you punctuate the word with a particularly harsh grind. ‘—depraved—’ And another. ‘—of—’ And _another_. ‘—you.’

‘Even to the point of doing so when I’m not here. Really, should I even fuck someone as depraved as you?’

What sounds like the beginning of the word _please_ is audible seconds before he cuts himself off with a groan. ‘Use your _words_ ,’ you hiss, even though you’re entirely responsible for the interruption. He tries again, but every time he does, you cut it off with a snap of your hips, faster each time. You are beyond fucking _wet_ , which meant he just had to contend with the friction.

‘Please,’ he eventually manages. ‘Please fuck m—’

You do. The noise he makes is nearly an outright sob the moment he’s slammed inside you, and you know from the desperation within that he’s not going to last. He’s not, but you wouldn’t have done your job properly if he had any hope of doing so. This fact is endearing enough that you don’t admonish him for the way his body arches and involuntarily bucks, although this might also have to do with how you need to pause to get used to the stretch.

‘ _Thank you_ ,’ he gasps out. It bursts forth in a manner that tells you it’s reflexive, and yet, the fact that his tone still defaults to reverent adoration fills you with the kind of warmth at the idea that you had taught him well. Well, that, and he always had been a good student, filled with an unending appetite to learn more so he could be good to you, so he could be good for you. He thanks you again.

As soon as you’re able, you keep your word. Spine upright, one of dignified authority that you’re quietly aware you’re going to lose to some degree, your kneeling frames his pelvis as you raise your body at a deliberate speed. It’s gradual enough to make the contrast for when you do fuck him into you one he can more than feel, and you know he does, because he cries out at the plummet.

It’s one of the first of many, and not even you are able to stop the pleased breath that’s forced out of your lungs at the rapid descent.

The time for teasing is over. Through thrusting onslaught, you notify him as much when your strokes become relentless, when every downward movement is punctuated with not only a smack of your thighs hitting his, but also a shattered moan from him and an increasing difficulty in keeping composed from you.

Of course, the quicker your hips are, the more you find you care less about composure – all that mattered was that you were more lucid than he was. Which – considering how _loud_ he was being – was not an issue whatsoever. It’s not, because you shift forward, inclining your body towards his to pin the wrists you’d abandoned earlier, using them as leverage to fuck him senseless.

At some point, you realize that between whines, he’s trying his very hardest to speak. ‘W-Wait,’ is all he can muster, before he tries again. ‘Please wait, I need—’

‘ _You_ need?’ Your voice is somehow breathless and harsh all at once. The next words you speak are a clear warning, because it was awfully bold of him to assume he was in the remote place to be able to make demands. You could stop, you let him know. You could leave him here wanting and waiting if he wasn’t careful, and he nearly outright sobs at the thought, hasty to mend the mistake.

So, so incredibly hasty – his apology is a concerted imploration, a desperate plea, a complete and utter fucking _beg_ to get you to continue. It had always been much more effective to put things to an abrupt stop mid-fuck (or threaten to, at least) than to deprive him from the beginning, because this close to you and to getting off, he didn’t have a remote shred of pride left.

There’s something really hot about audibly disrupting his _I’m sorry_ with another slam of your hips, the last syllable intermingling so nicely with a noise that’s beyond choked. It manages to in turn obscure the noise you make when your clit grinds a particular way against his pelvic bone, a gasp that would be unmissable if it weren’t for how you’d stolen any semblance of perception from him through the ruthless pace you’d set.

When your insides go from squeezing to clenching around him, he tries the same thing he had previously – only with much more urgency this time. ‘Wait!’ The near panic is cute, especially when you know what the problem is. Especially when you can _feel_ what the problem is, and unless he said the right things, you didn’t intend to pause.

‘ _No_ ,’ you deny him, and you watch as he frantically clamors to convince you.

‘Please, if you don’t slow down, I’m gonna _—_ ’ he doesn’t finish the sentence with anything comprehensive. It takes a few more thrusts from you before there’s another attempt. He’ll come, he tells you, and he sounds almost fearful, he’ll come and he doesn’t have your permission to and he’ll come and you have to slow down, please, he’s so close and he can’t, _please_ —

‘Try again,’ you reply. None of what he had said had sounded like any of his safe words. You know they didn’t, because you always keep track of what he says always during times like these, of what he rambles and moans out, ever searching for a sign that he wanted you to stop.

The fact that the next thing he vocalizes is an inarticulate plead tells you he doesn’t want you to. He begs in tongues, a sharp, shaky intake of breath when your grasp around his dick grips like a vice. It throbs and pulses in a manner that reflects his current predicament. He doesn’t want you to slow down, so he does the next best thing: he seeks your permission to get off.

And boy, does he do his most to seek it – he’d be nigh unintelligible if you didn’t know what he sought, but as it was, you’ve long learnt to decipher him when he’s at his most desperate. Quite simply, and with each fuck you rammed into him: please let him come, please let him come, he’ll do anything you asked, _please let him come_ , _pleaselethimcome—_

With the sentimentalities afforded by your oncoming peak, you let him.

Back arching, you throw your head back to squeeze your eyes shut, an outright keen you cannot stop bursting forth from your throat as the ever-tightening coil in your gut _shatters_. Your senses are shut down to experience little else than the sensation of you coming – not even the babbling gratitude of him thanking you over and over for your kindness before he reaches his own high is audible from where you are.

Nothing is audible, nor visible, or even remotely comprehensible except for the dam bursting, nothing except primality and ethereality alike of you getting off with your most beloved.

You collapse. Your world is little other than sweat and musk and heaving chests, little else to the point that the mindset you’d encompassed ever since you got home (and even before that) draining from your body with every inhale and exhale. Lucidity is something you gain slowly, and you do it in parts, bit by bit until you’re more present, until your aware of how Minghao’s wrists are still in your grip, how he’s still under you but this time has your entire body on his.

Gently, you thumb his pulse, before raising yourself a little to look at his face. He still looks dazed, more than overwhelmed by the events of the night, and your nurturing nature kicks in at this point. ‘I’ll be right back, okay?’ There’s no severity in your voice, no cruelty nor callousness within. It’s soft with none of the underlying threat, gentle with no hidden conditions, completely loving and husky with affection that you felt so, so much for him. ‘I promise, sweetheart, I’ll be right back.’

And you are – you leave for a moment, swift as humanely possible because you can’t leave him for long at all, discarding the used condom in the bathroom, returning with some warm washcloths and a bottle of water. You clean him as tenderly as you can, wiping him of sweat and everything else. The entire time, you speak to him, sweet encouragement unending the entire time. ‘I love you so much, Minghao,’ you tell him. 

When you’re done with the cleanup, you pull his body into your lap, resting your back against the headboard. He’s always incredibly pliant during the beginning of aftercare, so there’s no resistance as you tug his lanky body to settle on your thighs, his long legs around your waist. It’s the dichotomy between the lack of contact earlier and the complete lack of space now that helps ease him out of the subspace.

Everything right here, right now, is for him. You wrap the soft fur blanket from your bed around his back, a loose burrito around you both as you hold him to you. Praises pour out like honey as you trail fingers up and down his back, rubbing patterns into his warm skin. ‘You were so, so, _so_ good to me, lovely.’ It meant so much. He means so much to you, and you love and value him so, so much.

The first kiss of the night lands on his neck. It’s barely a kiss – you’ve just skimmed your lips against the skin of his throat, but he makes a small sound that has you cradling him closer to you. There’s more after the first, pecks and smooches that land on his chest, his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, insistent in the most tender of manners. ‘I love you so much,’ is repeated between every single kiss, and meant every single time.

One of your hands leaves his back to run through his hair, pressing into his scalp enough to be a loving scratch against his skull. ‘I _love_ you so much, Minghao,’ you mouth against warm skin. ‘Do you have any idea how much you mean to me? Any at all?’ You’d be lost, and you confess to him as much – you’re far too used to having him with you. You’re far too used to having him complete you – or rather, not complete, because you’re more than complete on your own, but he makes you better.

He makes you better.

At some point, you go to kiss him on the cheek, but meet soft lips instead. Minghao’s tilted his head the slightest to get you to kiss him, and your heart warms your chest through bone when you feel his mouth moving against yours. You sigh into the kiss, and Minghao’s warm hands frame your face as he tilts his head to kiss you better. He’s back. 

‘Hi,’ you eye his features as soon as you part for air. His eyes have much more clarity within the brown depths, and he gives you an exhausted but thoroughly sated smile.

‘Hey,’ he responds. His voice is croaky and breaks despite the single syllable, but it’s him regardless. He kisses you again and you’re more than happy when you return it – Minghao aches for kisses after every session, starved with how he was usually denied of them when things were particularly intensive. Starved, which meant he had to get his fill when things were over.

‘You—’ a smooch interrupts you, ‘—good?’

Objectively, you could say he was, but you never liked assuming when it came to how Minghao was feeling. Confirmation was important, and you had to hear it every time. ‘Minghao,’ your almost whine of his name breaks with a giggle that he smothers in another kiss, ‘please answer the question?’ 

Another kiss – god, he really was so greedy for them, but you adored it, you really, really did. ‘I’m more than that,’ his next kiss is a little deeper, and he holds it longer than the ones previously. You can feel the gratitude against your lips, but when he breaks away, he says it anyway. ‘Thank you.’

He begins a patterned string of _thank you_ s and kisses that you had no choice but to accept. Not that you lacked choice because of him, but rather you had no choice because you didn’t want to choose any other options. His hands rub at your back before one of them laces his fingers in between yours, and he seems so eager in the way he seeks your warmth. So eager, so loving. It almost made your heart hurt with how much you loved him.

‘Do you want me to run you a bath?’ You ask a little later. ‘Or I could put on a movie you like and we can cuddle.’ Then, after a glance at the clock on the nightstand, ‘Your favourite take out place is still open too, if you want to order out.’ The long trading hours were a godsend, really – you’d made use of it countless times after wearing Minghao out. .

Minghao still hasn’t budged from your lap. ‘We can cuddle here,’ he answers. ‘I missed you,’ he says, then tacks on a, ‘a _lot_.’

‘I missed you too, sweetheart. A lot a lot.’

Still, you do manage to persuade him into taking a bath. It hadn’t taken much, just a promise that you’d join him. You were always going to join him anyway, considering you always had in the past, but hearing it out loud is what convinces him. Within ten minutes, after he’d gulped down most of the water and a quick rinse to clean your bodies of what the wash cloths hadn’t, you’ve both sunk into the bubbly watery depths of your bathtub.

It’s cute really, it’s more than large enough to have Minghao and you across from each other and then some, but he disregards this fact to immediately join you on your side, settling between your legs. He sighs as you pull him close and you rest your chin on his head, allowing him to rest his head on your chest. Minghao seems at peace when you kiss his forehead, the heat of the water soothing the familiar vague soreness that came with being thoroughly satisfied. 

‘Are you awake?’ You ask him. Minghao’s eyes had fluttered shut some time ago, breathing slowed to something soporific. Not that you’d blame him if he’d dozed off – it wouldn’t have been the first time anyway, and it was more of a sign at how comfortable he was more than anything else.

‘Mmm,’ he is. He is, because he hums and runs his grip along your arms that hugged him to you, before resting his large hands over yours. When you ask him if he wants to talk, he nods an assent despite how his eyes remained closed.

‘Okay.’ You press a kiss to the crown of his head, lips meeting his wet hair. ‘How was your day?’

‘Good. I went for a run this morning, met up with Junnie and Gyu afterwards, came home to do laundry…’ his voice trails off to signal the end of his recount. He’s not done talking, however. ‘I thought a lot about you today.’ At your amused _I know_ , you see a smile bloom on his lips. ‘Not just like that.’ He’d meant it when he said he’d missed you.

‘I know you did. But I’m here now.’

‘You are.’ His eyes open and he looks up at you. Minghao’s smile is beyond warm and loving, and you are acutely reminded of how you would do anything to ensured it continued as much. ‘You _are_ ,’ he repeats, and he leans forward to kiss you once again. You are, and he loves you for it.

And so do you.

**Author's Note:**

> This is another old fic of mine from 2018, which I originally posted on Tumblr. Hopefully I can post more new work soon!


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